


Smitten

by overlordy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, M/M, Male Hunter OC, a lot of fluff, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlordy/pseuds/overlordy
Summary: The Hunter pays a visit to his very good friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> these one-line titles are kinda grating on me but yknow what oh well

For some inexplicable reason, known only to some higher power, he finds himself once more before a murky window. He blinks, taking in his surroundings. The moon hangs in the sky, illuminating the tiny courtyard. Sparse, thin grasses sway in the cool evening breeze, carrying the ever present scent of incense with it. He wonders why he’s here, knowing that he should be continuing onwards with his hunt. Despite everything telling him not to, though, he stays. He stares confounded at the window before him.

...Well, it isn’t like Gilbert speaks to him after their initial conversations, anyway. Just short repetitions of previous subjects, delivered in a near dismissive manner. He expects no acknowledgment from his friend on the other side of an opaque window.

Of course, in this unusual time, that is exactly what he receives. “...Jeremiah? I didn’t expect to see you again tonight. I thought perhaps you would be too occupied.”

Indeed, he should be occupied. Things refuse to fall into place, it seems. “I know,” Jeremiah responds, to his own surprise. “I should be.”

“Then why are you here?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

Minutes drift by under a heavy silence, broken only by Gilbert’s erratic coughing fits. The thought of his friend’s approaching illness almost makes the hunter want to push away from the window and bury his worries in the blood of beasts. He doesn’t. He’s not that weak.

“Are you still there?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he confirms, crossing his arms, his cleaver dangling loosely from his fingers.

“Forgive me, but… would you, perhaps, like to come in?”

The hunter’s brows shoot up in surprise and his grip reflexively tightens around his cleaver. No one has even considered the thought of letting a foreign hunter inside, and for good reason. He could be on the verge of blood sickness, he could be mad, like the rest, he could…

All of his excuses sound empty in his own ears. Still, he resists, if only for the sake of saying he tried. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

A pause, accompanied by a few labored breaths from his companion. “Yes, I believe so. Even if you wish to harm me… well, it isn’t like I’m not already dying, is it?” Gilbert laughs. Jeremiah doesn’t find it funny.

He mulls the request over (though, he already knows the answer) and his curiosity of his companion’s face resurfaces. He supposes it wouldn’t hurt to know what his steadfast friend looks like. His instincts remind him of the ever-present danger of entering the home of a man with blood sickness, already on the verge of transformation. He quiets those thoughts in an instant. If Gilbert does happen to transform, well…

He can handle it. If he has to, he will do what must be done.

“Alright,” he assents, moving off the fence and over towards the front of the building. He stares at the cherry-colored wood, fighting to keep an impassive expression and push away the sudden jittery nerves that threaten to make him bounce on his feet. He will not. He must maintain at least some form of dignity.

He hears movement from inside the house, a harsh scraping, a few thumps and bumps, and a multitude of miscellaneous rustling. After a moment the noises cease. He hears a click. The door in front of him creaks on unoiled hinges as it opens, making a crack just wide enough for him to slip through. He can’t see anything inside, the shadows are too thick to see past, but what does he have to lose? Determined, he pushes his way inside. The door closes behind him with a soft click and plunges him into darkness.

His first instinct is to press his back against the cold door and hold his cleaver in front of him. His eyes search the darkness, frantic, picking up nonexistent shapes and shadows all poised to jump out and claw him to bloody pieces, only for him to reawaken and do it over and  _ over- _

A light blossoms to life, just to his left. His head snaps towards the beacon of safety, a candle, flickering in the darkness. Its soft orange glow illuminates sparse furniture, a few chairs and a table and an iron stove in the corner, with a bed pressed against the opposite wall, just below a dirty window.

His eyes flick back to the candle, held aloft by a pale and thin hand. He almost doesn’t want to look further. He shouldn’t have come in here, shouldn’t have shattered the image of anonymity his friendship carried. Now he needs to put a face to the voice, and with the face brings a person. A human. It makes him… real.

Stop avoiding the present reality. Look down.

He does.

Gilbert smiles at him, a weak twitch of his muscles, and Jeremiah has to use every ounce of his strength to not fall back against the door. His mousy brown hair hangs unkempt about his face, thin with sickness. He sits in a wheelchair, covered by a ragged and patchy blanket that seems ineffective in blocking out the chill of the hunt. His face is soft in the candlelight, but hollow with the strain of his sickness. Light blue eyes are framed by dark bags. He probably hasn’t had a decent rest in weeks, even before the hunt began.

Neither of them speak. Jeremiah is too nervous to utter a word, worried he might break the illusion presented before him and the kind-faced man will disappear in a blink. Gilbert’s eyes dart right and left as he fidgets in his wheelchair. He seems uncomfortable.

“Well, er, now that you’re here, would you like some tea?” Gilbert asks, snapping Jeremiah out of whatever trance he was placed under. Quickly, he nods, and after a moment of consideration, he leans his cleaver and blunderbuss against the wall beside the door. He feels that he will not need them here, and his instincts have yet to prove wrong. Besides, the incense will keep out any unsightly creatures.

Gilbert turns his wheelchair with one hand, grunting with the strain, and pushes himself towards a tiny end table placed near his bed. He lights a second candle resting there, then another placed on the window sill. Jeremiah stands near the door, at a loss for what to do. He hasn’t been shown hospitality in who knows how long. He glances down at his blood-splattered clothes and wrinkles his nose. He toes off his sticky, gore-covered boots and shrugs off his coat, letting both articles crumple to the floor. He can’t help but feel out of place. His fingers twitch and he busies himself with cleaning blood from his glasses. Gilbert turns from his preparations, as if sensing Jeremiah’s discomfort, and offers him an encouraging smile. The hunter sighs, replaces his glasses, and removes his hat and face covering, placing both atop his coat. His face feels cold, unused to being exposed.

The squeal of a kettle jerks him out of his thoughts and he gropes blindly for a weapon that isn’t there. Gilbert looks up from the tea with wide eyes and quickly lifts it off the stove. “Sorry,” he says, his arms shaking with the weight of the kettle. “I know you must be on guard at all times. I should have warned you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jeremiah mutters. “...Do you need help-?”

“No,” Gilbert snaps, his eyes narrowing. He offers no further explanation as he carefully pours tea into two old cups. He visibly strains with the weight, but spills not a single drop. With confident hands he lowers the kettle and gestures for Jeremiah to sit in the chair opposite him. The hunter looks at the chair like it might attack him. He loathes being in one place for too long, especially being relaxed while he’s wasting time. When Gilbert fixes him a perplexed look he sits anyway. He fidgets restlessly, to Gilbert’s apparent amusement. When he looks up again, Gilbert smiles at him.

He busies himself with sipping tea, even though it scalds his tongue and fogs up his glasses. Anything to hide the heat rising to his face.

The two sit in an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft clatter of porcelain and Gilbert’s sporadic coughs. Jeremiah schools his expression into some form of neutrality each time Gilbert hacks into his red-stained handkerchief, but even the most disciplined of hunters wouldn’t be able to hide their concern. He wants to reach out, to comfort, but he already sank too deep. If he pushed onwards he would surely drown. He clenches the arm of the chair to keep his hands busy.

“So,” Gilbert clears his throat, breaking the silence and causing Jeremiah to startle in his seat. “Sorry,” he apologizes again, delicately setting down his empty cup. Jeremiah takes a sip of his own, self-conscious. He wouldn’t want to be rude.

“How goes the hunt, Jeremiah?” Gilbert asks, while the puzzled hunter before him tries not to focus too much on the way his lips look spelling out his name. He shakes his head to clear his mind of such thoughts.

“...Not good, I take it?” Gilbert misinterprets the motion and Jeremiah gives an uneasy shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s tiring. The beasts innumerable,” he explains, his leg bouncing anxiously. He still isn’t used to sitting still for even the shortest period of time. “Not that I can’t handle it.”

“Of course,” Gilbert agrees, leaning back in his wheelchair and folding his hands in his lap. Jeremiah tracks the motion, catches himself, then forces his eyes back upwards. Eye contact is essential in normal conversations, and other such frivolities.

Gilbert furrows his brow and purses his lips, his countenance taking a perplexed expression, before relaxing once more into an easy-going smile. “You do seem very capable, Jeremiah. Only the most skilled of hunters would last this long on a night such as this.”

Jeremiah feels his skin flush at the unbidden praise and he can’t keep himself from looking away, fidgeting in earnest. “I, ah… Thank you.” He isn’t sure how else to respond. People don’t usually compliment hunters, especially hunters from outside Yharnam.

“How has my Flamesprayer been treating you?” Gilbert asks. The hunter recalls the rusty old weapon, which seemed like a useless pile of junk at first. That is, until he pulled the trigger on an overeager lycanthrope. He smiles at the pleasant memory.

“Quite good. It’s very effective on beasts.”

“Excellent. I would only want the best weapons for you, good hunter.”

Jeremiah’s smile drops off his face, leaving him with a look of growing confusion. Two compliments in the span of two minutes? Must be some sort of holiday. “Well, you mastered it before me. Of course it would be worthwhile.”

Gilbert’s pleasant smile widens into a smirk. He leans his elbow on the arm of his wheelchair and props his head against his fist, watching the hunter before him with an interested expression. Jeremiah receives a distinct impression that he’s missing something, like Gilbert is privy to some sort of joke centered around him. His unease only grows. He quells his nervousness with a sip of now lukewarm tea.

“I’m pleased my weapon met the hands of a hunter who is not only capable, but rather dashing.”

Jeremiah chokes on his tea. After a few good hits to the chest, he looks up at a concerned, yet at the same time amused, Gilbert. He’s left with a whirlwind of confounding emotions swirling within him, unable to be sorted. He hasn’t felt this lost in years. He’s not sure if he likes it or not.

A soft chuckle from his companion stirs him from his internal musing. Gilbert glances away, hiding his face behind his hand. “Forgive me, that was a bit… forward, wasn’t it?” he laughs again, the sound sweet against the hunter’s ears. All he knows is he wants to hear it more.

“Not… not really,” he tries, cursing himself for the way his voice trembles. Gilbert looks at him again, his eyebrows raised. “I-I mean-” There really is no turning back now. As Gilbert smiles at him, his eyes betraying an unfamiliar fondness, the hunter before him knows there’s no escaping this time. He really should not be fine with this. Such deep attachments, especially one to a man who waits upon death’s doorstep, will only lead to pain in the end.

“I know what you must be thinking,” Gilbert whispers, staring down at his folded hands. “It would be unwise to pursue something with me, wouldn’t it? You’re a hunter, and I’m a dying man. This will only end poorly, for the both of us.”

“I don’t care.”

The harsh reply shocks Gilbert into looking up and facing him. Jeremiah is surprised at himself and the truthfulness of that statement, but still he presses onwards, allowing his emotions to take the reigns for once. “This still matters to me,” he confesses. “I know what the consequences will be, but I don’t care. I don’t mind if it hurts me in the end, as long as you’re happy.”

Gilbert sits back in his wheelchair, stunned into silence, and stares at Jeremiah like he’s the moon on a night of the hunt, an ever-present entity to light the way for even the sorriest of hunters. The hunter feels heat rising to his face, but he refuses to hide his blush, seeing that Gilbert is also turning a curious shade of pink.

“Oh,” Gilbert says, as if that’s the only thing he can say. “Alright.”

Jeremiah remains calm long enough to set his half-empty cup of cold tea on the table before standing and striding towards Gilbert, who watches him with fascination. As he dips down to cement his fate, Gilbert places a hand on his chest. The minimal force is enough to stop the hunter in his tracks.

Gilbert stares up at him, solemn. “Will you be able to kill me when I turn, Jeremiah?” he asks, his voice low and serious. The thought itself makes Jeremiah’s stomach churn in dread, but he wouldn’t besmirch his duty as a hunter, and to his close companion. He nods, wordless for the moment. Gilbert searches his face, then makes some sort of unvoiced decision. He removes Jeremiah’s glasses and sets them upon the table with reverent care. He stares into the uncovered eyes before him, his gaze heated and concealing something intense that the hunter cannot name. He cranes his neck upwards and presses his lips to Jeremiah’s.

Jeremiah has kissed few people in his life, however long that may be, and none of them stand out in his mind over Gilbert’s. Gilbert, whose lips are chapped but clever and experienced, far more than his own clumsy mouth. A hand moves up his arm, slow and cautious and raising goosebumps in its wake, then curls into his hair. Gilbert tugs him closer, guides him with a saintly amount of patience through their kiss. He directs Jeremiah to angle his head just so, enough to press closer and deepen the embrace until he tastes tangy copper.

Gilbert turns away and coughs into his handkerchief, his body shuddering with violent convulsions. Jeremiah wipes red from his mouth, then places unsure hands on Gilbert’s back, rubbing soothing circles to guide him through his fit.

Once it passes Gilbert slumps back in his chair, his skin losing its earlier color. He wheezes, a pitiful sound, and stares up at Jeremiah, too weak to lift even a finger. The hunter feels sadness wring his heart, and he moves to take a step back and give Gilbert his space, but a gentle hand on his wrist stops him.

“Please,” Gilbert breathes, “I need you.”

Jeremiah’s eyes widen, uncertainty settling within him. He wishes to retreat before Gilbert has any other drastic ideas, but the hand on his wrist keeps him rooted in place. “A-are you sure?” he stammers, worrying for his companion’s health, for his frail body that would surely shatter under the barest amount of stress. As tempting as the notion may be, he knows it is unwise.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain,” Gilbert responds, his voice just above a hoarse whisper. “Please, Jeremiah. Let me feel again.”

Still, Gilbert presses. Jeremiah finds it harder and harder to say no with each passing moment. “You might-”

Gilbert silences his protests with a spirited glare. “Do not tell me I might break. I don’t care at the moment, Jeremiah.” His blue eyes blaze with hidden passion. In his full health Gilbert must have been an imposing figure, one that resurfaced now and just so happens to be impossible to deny. Gilbert’s glare softens. “I trust you.”

Gods, this man is going to be the death of him.

An insistent tug at his wrist spurs him into action. He places his hands beneath Gilbert and lifts him with an unsurprisingly small amount of effort. He feels like if he pressed just a fraction too hard he could snap Gilbert in half, like a brittle twig. He questions his decision once more as he places Gilbert with utmost care upon his bed, observing the way he barely sinks into the mattress. Gilbert’s breaths come at a faster pace as he gazes up at the hunter, his eyes heavy-lidded and filled with an unfamiliar, almost frightening amount of want. 

Jeremiah doesn’t know where to begin. It isn’t like he’s never done this sort of thing before, but it was never with someone so significant and so fragile, though Gilbert would certainly disapprove of being called fragile. Gilbert waits for him, ever so patient. He decides he’s had enough of waiting.

He moves onto the bed, careful to not jostle Gilbert too violently, and slides between the man’s legs. He hikes the thin limbs around his waist and leans forward, his lips grazing Gilbert’s protruding collarbone just so. Gilbert sighs, his breath shaky and hot against Jeremiah’s skin, and busies himself with undoing the multitude of clasps and buckles adorning Jeremiah’s armor. His fingers are sure and confident, free of any sign of hesitation, and he soon divests Jeremiah of his tunic and tosses the thick clothing off to the side, leaving Jeremiah’s upper half bare to the cold night air.

Gilbert’s hands skim down his body and trace the contours of his muscles. Nimble fingers catch on the raised skin of the numerous scars dotting his body as he peppers Gilbert’s neck with soft kisses, so light they’re almost indetectable. Gilbert cranes his neck and welcomes the gentle touches, humming as his hands descend lower and lower down Jeremiah’s body, only to stop at the hem of his pants.

Jeremiah pauses his ministrations for the time being to scoot back and pull Gilbert’s loose shirt over his head. His earlier observation towards how thin Gilbert is seems to be true. As he runs his hands down his companion’s side he can almost count every individual rib.

“It’s not too unattractive, is it?” Gilbert presses his chest up into Jeremiah’s hands. The hunter can feel his heartbeat, thudding against his palms like a frightened bird.

“No. You’re perfect,” Jeremiah affirms, bending down to capture Gilbert’s lips once more. The man sighs, his breath soft against Jeremiah’s lips. Scars, so much like his own, litter Gilbert’s torso, ghost white lines raised above already pale skin, hiding glimpses into a mysterious past. Jeremiah wonders, but doesn’t press, leaving those questions for another day. He kisses Gilbert as he moves his hands across his chest, his movements unhurried, using the utmost care. His thumb catches on a dusky nipple and the slightest of touches causes Gilbert to gasp against his mouth.

“Good?” the hunter mumbles, the question muted by Gilbert’s insistent lips on his own. At Gilbert’s desperate nod he draws his mouth down to the pale expanse of skin covering Gilbert's throat. He swipes his tongue along the curve of his jugular and presses a feather-light kiss to a fluttering pulse. A groan answers the touch and hands fumble with the clasp of his belt, but Jeremiah catches them and holds them down against the bed.

“You first,” he explains when he receives a puzzled look. His mouth travels lower, across Gilbert's chest, feverish beneath his lips. His tongue swipes over a pert nipple and Gilbert twitches, his lips pursing against a noise of pleasure. Jeremiah continues down, pressing loving kisses to every scar that comes in his path. He pauses when he reaches the hem of Gilbert’s loose pants. He glances up and meets blue eyes, dilated with fervor, shining in the flickering candlelight. Gilbert gazes at him like he's the whole world and more compacted into a human body. Jeremiah shrinks back under the adoration, unable to recall a time anyone stared at him with such longing.

“Are you alright?” Gilbert props himself up on his elbows and reaches forward, the tips of his fingers brushing through the scruffy ginger hair on Jeremiah’s jaw. He hasn't shaved since before he received his transfusion and began his hunt. Maybe he should find the time. Gilbert's thumb caresses his cheek with a lover’s touch and Jeremiah finds himself tilting his head into the warm palm of Gilbert’s hand. He feels protected, and the need to protect in turn. Though he does not fully understand why, he cherishes Gilbert beyond anything he has ever known. It frightens and exhilarates him.

“Never better,” he answers once he returns to the present moment. Gilbert offers an encouraging smile and lays down, his hand moving from the hunter's face. He already misses the warmth. “Shall I continue?”

“Of course.”

Given permission, he hooks his fingers around the hem of Gilbert's pants and slides them down, exposing inch after inch of milky white skin littered with more scars. Some scars, little marks dotting the outer thighs after multiple clumsy mid-battle transfusions, echo upon his own skin. He casts the clothing aside, leaving Gilbert bare to the chilly night air. The man stretches out before him, displaying his slight musculature, his movements languid and alluring and enticing all at once. Gilbert watches him as he gawks, an amused expression growing on his face. “You're allowed to touch me, Jeremiah,” he purrs, a teasing lilt in his accented voice.

“Sorry,” whispers Jeremiah, his hands roaming Gilbert’s long legs, working the supple flesh of his inner thighs between calloused hands. The man hums, relishing the pleasant sensation. Hidden muscles, no doubt weak with misuse, relax under gentle fingers, until Gilbert all but melts against his hands. He trails his touch upwards and strokes the underside of Gilbert's cock with the tip of his finger. A soft exhale follows, a sign to continue. Jeremiah takes Gilbert’s hardened length in his hand and pumps, slow and shallow. It's been some odd years since he's done this to anyone besides himself, and if his movements are too clumsy Gilbert certainly isn't complaining, judging by the way he grips the sheets and bucks his hips in search for further gratification. Jeremiah presses the pad of his thumb to the underside of the head of his cock and Gilbert jerks and keens, a breathless exclamation of bliss falling from kiss-swollen lips.

Jeremiah’s eyes track every sinuous curve of Gilbert’s body, his mouth going dry. “Do you have any-?”

Gilbert cuts off his question with an aborted gesture to the underside of his bedframe. Jeremiah nods and releases his grip around Gilbert’s cock, receiving a whine and a few coughs in return. He leans over the side of the bed and fishes out a small, half-empty vial of honey-colored fluid. He glances at Gilbert, who shrugs.

“I get bored, sometimes,” he explains. He grimaces and hunches his shoulders as another cough wracks his body. He whimpers and curls up, but Jeremiah's hands on his shoulders stop him. The hunter massages his skin.

“We don't have to, if you aren't feeling well enough,” he offers.

“No,” Gilbert rasps, “I don't have enough time. I need to be with you before… before I…” he trails off with a weak sob, one that hurts worse than the claws of a beast. “Please, Jeremiah.”

He nods and stoops down to kiss Gilbert, ignoring the tangy sting of blood against his tongue. He dips his fingers into the vial of liquid, some sort of sweet smelling oil. “Relax,” he instructs, breaking the kiss for the time being. Gilbert exhales and nods, and as Jeremiah slips the first finger inside his breath hitches and tapers off into a whimper.

“Are you alright?” Jeremiah asks, cautious of another coughing fit. Gilbert's hands tremble as he clutches Jeremiah’s upper arms, his chest fighting for breath. He feels hot, too hot, and Jeremiah has half a mind to stop but Gilbert pushes his hips down to meet his hand and all train of thought screeches to a halt.

He pumps his finger in and out, his movements slow and methodical, careful not to overwhelm Gilbert with sensation. The man beneath him parts his lips in frantic moans as he pushes in another finger. He crooks his digits upwards and presses and Gilbert's back arches off the bed, a strangled gasp heaving from his chest. The gasp dissolves into a round of wet coughs, severe enough to have Jeremiah removing his fingers. He waits for Gilbert to regain his breath, tries to ignore the blood spattered against his pale chest.

“Are you certain that-”

“For the final time, Jeremiah,  _ yes! _ ” Gilbert barks. “I appreciate the concern, but please do hurry up and  _ fuck me. _ ”

A burst of heat travels along his spine and settles in his groin. A new hunger awakens within him, like a big beast rearing its head. He clenches his jaw, maintaining strict control over his body as he scoops a liberal amount of oil onto his fingers and slicks himself. If he has enough self control to resist the temptation of blood lust, then he can control himself now. Gilbert hooks his slender legs around Jeremiah's waist, tugs him closer with carnal impatience. He pants, the sound too wet and rattling, as Jeremiah slides in, slow and careful. Gilbert releases a shaky breath, his hands grasping fistfuls of the sheets. The hunter closes his eyes against the tight heat encompassing his cock, shuddering at the exquisite pleasure of being so close to another living, breathing human. 

He places his hands on Gilbert's hips, feels him tremor beneath his fingers. Gilbert stares up at him, pleading, his blue eyes wet with unshed tears. The moonlight filters in through the window, bathing Gilbert in a serene silver glow. His chest shudders with each breath, pale skin pulling taut against old scars. Jeremiah takes his hand, which seems close to tearing a hole in the sheets, and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Are you alright?” he mutters against cold skin. Gilbert nods, his hand trembling against Jeremiah’s lips. “You're shaking. Do you want to stop?”

“ _ No! _ ” Gilbert exclaims, then dissolves into a fit of coughing. “No,” he clears his throat, “I'm fine. Keep going.”

He nods and laces their fingers together, pressing Gilbert's hand against the mattress. He sets a torturous pace, pulling out to the head and driving back in sluggish movements. Gilbert sighs beneath him and closes his eyes, an enraptured expression falling across his face. Jeremiah bites his lip as heat slides across him and alights his nerves, sending shivers through his body. Gilbert tightens his grip around Jeremiah’s hand with each drag of the hunter’s hips. The scent of incense combines with the tang of sex, creating a heady smell more intoxicating than the finest of blood cocktails. Jeremiah growls, a deep animalistic sound, and angles his hips. His cock presses against Gilbert’s prostate and the man jerks in surprise, his eyes snapping open. His lips part around a moan, his voice deep and enthralling. Jeremiah feels his control slipping. He grits his teeth against his abhorrent desires, little whispers telling him to ravage, to take.

Gilbert peers up at him, and only then does he realize he stopped, caught up in the wake of his internal battle. “Please,” Gilbert breathes, and he squeezes Jeremiah’s hand in his own. The pressure grounds him. “Keep going. Please, Jeremiah.”

His body shakes with the effort of keeping himself in check. “Do you want more?” he asks. Gilbert nods and grinds against him and he feels something within him snap.

The hunter thrusts into tempting heat, keeping his wits enough to hit Gilbert’s prostate with every vigorous movement of his hips. His cries resonate in his small home, his voice hoarse and breaking on enraptured exclamations. Gilbert’s unoccupied hand clutches at his back, his nails rending bright red lines on fair skin. Jeremiah hisses against the sting, which coalesces with the flooding heat spreading throughout every nerve on his body. He feels as if he consumed ten beast pellets. Ecstasy and power course through him, centered at the intimate place where he connects with Gilbert time and time again. It’s  _ hot _ , too hot, the glass fogs with their shared heat. Distantly he hears Gilbert pleading with him, “ _ Touch me, _ ” and he musters enough coherence to take Gilbert’s weeping cock in one hand and stroke him in time with his thrusts.

Gilbert writhes beneath him, he feels something hot and wet trickling down his back, and suddenly all he can smell is  _ blood. _ An ache settles in his gut and he presses forward, faster, harder, and Gilbert goes rigid and sobs, a tear trickling down his cheek as he comes. The scent of sex, of  _ Gilbert _ , swirls around his head, disorienting his senses until all he can do is feel Gilbert clench around him and lips on his own. His pleasure reaches its peak and tips and he buries himself deep and spills inside his lover. His shoulders quake with relief, a moan falling unbidden from his lips.

As his haze subsides he collapses onto the bed beside Gilbert, who pants like he just ran from here to Old Yharnam and back again. As he returns to himself Gilbert turns and presses against him, sighing in contentment.

Jeremiah clears his throat. “Are you alright?” he asks, embarrassed for losing himself. “Was I too-”

“No,” Gilbert interrupts. “You were perfect.” His voice is hoarse. Jeremiah worries he may have been too eager, but Gilbert snuggles up against his chest and drives such thoughts away.

The hunter glances out the window. The moon still hangs in the sky, as if no time had passed at all. Gilbert looks up and follows his gaze, forlorn. “You can stay for longer, can’t you?” he pleads, his voice barely above a whisper.

He shouldn’t. Hell, there are a lot of things he shouldn’t do. He just can’t bring himself to care anymore. “I can stay for a while longer,” he says and Gilbert beams up at him. He wraps his arms around the smaller man, who turns his head to cough into his hand. He tries to ignore the glint of scarlet against his snowy palm.


End file.
